


tripping, falling (with no safety net)

by Ganine



Category: Persona 3, Persona Series
Genre: 8k words, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Inspired by Call Me By Your Name, Latin, Leather Jackets, Literature, Pining, Pins, Punk, Trauma, When he likes Latin 😩🤚, Yearning, ceo of self esteem issues, dear followers today I offer punk!mitsumina, headcannons, i finished this at 3 am last night 😀👍, ik he sounds like he’s ✨n o t l i k e o t g e r g u y s✨ But bare with me ok, in praise of folly, mental breakdowns, my pjo ass had a field day with this 💀, no beta we die like shinji, pistol whipping, prep!mitsuru, pretend I know English and how to write and analyze text, punk!minato, ships them but like in a bisexual way, tommorow? Who knows, too many Greek gods and Myths references, undercuts, vulgarity, what am I doing with my life 🧍♀️
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27508543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ganine/pseuds/Ganine
Summary: Their outcasts, whether they know it or not.
Relationships: Arisato Minato/Kirijo Mitsuru
Comments: 7
Kudos: 15





	tripping, falling (with no safety net)

**Author's Note:**

> dear followers, today I offer punk!mitsumina. tomorrow? who knows...
> 
> anyway here’s the Spotify playlist for this bc I said so: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/16aBrJZrQtJEKIzkwF9muE?si=lg1OBnDLRL-9N52Ww-SzIg

A mop of cobalt hair messily styled in an undercut greeted her, complimented by a pierced face Mitsuru’s father would never even dare let her have. His hands are stuffed into what she could only describe as a _loud_ leather jacket, one he obviously cares for due to a large number of patches, pins, and customization he’s done to it. 

He’s the spitting image of everything her father has instilled her to stay away from. 

“Why the _fuck_ do you have a gun?” Are his first words, gesturing to the evoker Takeba has trained on him. He’s comfortable with vulgarity, she notes. 

“Language.” 

He glances toward her, clearly debating whether he wants to say something back. Or, perhaps, just discuss what he saw during the Dark Hour. In the end, though, he chooses neither. 

She made up some fabricated answer to Yukari’s evoker and the boy took it without a hitch, even if he didn’t believe it. However, he _did_ pique her interest. Mitsuru was well aware she was in desperate need of a team of persona users, and Arisato _was_ seemingly active and awake during the Dark Hour. 

But she was _really_ hoping he lacked the potential as she observed him striding up the stairs, an iced iris side-eyeing her. 

Imagine her disappointment when he awakens his persona. 

—

Minato Arisato _knows_ disapproving glances, he’s practically fluent in them. When you buy (and DIY, may he add) your clothes from thrift and backhand stores, have a glare etched onto your face 24/7, a lip ring, and tattoos, disgusted glances become your best friend. He’s not bothered by them, not anymore at least. 

However, having a disapproving look from a person who can ultimately decide if you live or die in his newly introduced battle setting can sting a bit. 

Minato bites into an apple, settling himself into the chair across from her. The chairs pained squeaks and groans echo through the relatively silent lounge as he leans back surely irritated Kirijo, as an audible sigh escapes her. 

“Can I assist you, Arisato?” Says Mitsuru, evidently displeased with...well, everything about him. She never took kindly to him since he arrived, from his excessive use of vulgar language to his blatantly rude demeanor. 

“No, just waiting for Yukari to hurry up.” He takes another bite from his Red Delicious. “But, I do have a favor, if you don’t mind.” 

Bold, considering he's been a pain in her side for the month he’s been here. Although, no matter how much she doesn’t like him, he’s a valuable asset in his abilities. As much as she hates to admit it, they need him. 

And he’s piqued her curiosity, so she might as well ask. “Yes?” 

“There’s this girl, uh, Yamagishi? I don’t know, but I haven’t seen her around for a while.” 

“If this is about a relationship-” He glared and Mitsuru let him finish. 

“I was just...worried. Her friends are pretty shitty too, so I was just hoping she didn’t do anything drastic.” 

“I’ll look into it.” He nodded and began his banter with Takeba when she arrived. Once they left, Mitsuru couldn’t quite picture what she had witnessed. Arisato was cold, vulgar, and rough around the edges (or perhaps she was just reaching, but his “no shit, Sherlock!” comment wasn’t exactly _friendly_ towards her.) so it was somewhat unnerving to see him express genuine emotion and care.

It reminds her that he was, despite her reservations, still a person. 

Just like the rest of them. 

—

“What would you assholes do without me?” A cocky grin was etched onto his battle-worn face, blood dripping from his forehead as he observed the two bosses crumple in defeat. 

Minato glanced at Yamagishi and her Persona, batting his line of sight at Mitsuru. 

“Looks like you're relieved of duty, Strawberry. This mean I’m not stuck with Thing 1 and Thing 2 anymore?” 

“What the hell, dude!?” 

“Asshat.” 

Arisato folded his arms, blazer rolled up to expose his grimy and tattooed forearms. He quirked his brow, ignoring Takeba’s and Iori’s insults. 

“I have a name.” Glares Mitsuru, plainly upset with his usage of “Strawberry.” 

“And?” Retorts Arisato, extending a hand for her to take. She eye’s it before dismissing his gesture.

“You should check on the others, first.” 

“A ‘no thanks’ would’ve worked just as well.” 

Never in her life has Mitsuru Kirijo debated manslaughter, but she just might if he kept this up. 

—

She never once dreamed that Arisato could be...respectful when he truly tried. 

He held his head high as they made their way to her father’s office, why her father wanted to meet Arisato of all people was _beyond_ her understanding. 

“Arisato-”

“I won’t do anything stupid.” He growled. “Despite popular belief, I do have manners.”

The door opens, and Arisato steps into the dimly lit office. An older man awaits him, sitting patiently at his desk.

“Arisato-kun, I presume?”

He nods.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, you know?”

“Hopefully good things.” Chimes Minato.

“You’ve done excellent work in the field, and your abilities have incredibly assisted us in eliminating the Dark Hour.”

Mitsuru felt as though there was an inevitable “but” coming while she idly listened to them. 

“Thank you, sir.”

“I understand that your parents were victims from the explosion ten years ago,” Now _this_ catches Mitsuru’s attention. Her father rises from his seat, an apologetic look plastered on his sturdy face. “I want to apologize, properly, for what the Kirijo have put you through.”

Her father extends his hand in an attempt for a handshake. Arisato observes it and hesitates like it was some deception or trap before speaking. 

“I appreciate it, sir. However, I don’t believe I should be the one you’re apologizing to.” 

“Arisato-!” Takeharu silences his daughter before she has an opportunity to speak her mind. 

“And who should I be apologizing to, exactly?”

“The kids out there who’ve been dragged into this war.” Mitsuru notices how Arisato hardly reaches her father’s neck, and it drags her back to reality.

He stands before her father unflinching, and she realizes how small he is before him. He isn’t an adult, far from it, and was a tad on the shorter side (which he made up for in spirit, she supposed.) and it hit her like a semi-truck. 

He’s a kid. 

They _all_ are. 

She glances back at her father, who listens intently for his next words. 

“And I think, personally, you owe an apology to your daughter.”

She wants to say something, again, tell him off for his disrespect against her father, how he doesn’t know the full story and should shut his trap before her father has the opportunity to shush her once more. 

However, she doesn’t. That’s what shocks her the most, she _doesn’t_. They knew they were never on the...best terms, she mused. They were comrades, allies, senpai and kohai. Nothing more, nothing less. Yes, he would tease her and often upset her with his attitude, there was no doubt about any of that. 

Yet, he had no reasoning to defend her. None of them had ever hinted that they wanted to pursue anything more than teammates, that they wanted to be...friends. 

“I’ll see myself out,” Arisato says his goodbye and exits the office, most likely heading to rejoin the others. 

“I apologize for him, father. He’s a bit-” Once more this night, her father shushes her. 

“Tell him I appreciate it, and go escort him back to the lounge.” Are all he states.

Mitsuru wants to protest, say something about his behavior, and feel responsible for _something_. However, she nods, reluctantly obeys his order, and heads to find Arisato. 

“What was that?” She seethes, glaring daggers into his backside. He never turns to meet her, continuing walking away with his hands shoved into his pockets.

“I don’t know, what _was_ it?” 

“My father wanted to apologize to you.” 

“And I told him I shouldn’t be the one getting an apology.” 

This argument was getting them nowhere, all Arisato did was reiterate his points from before. 

Tentatively, Mitsuru asks the question that plagued her thoughts for the last half hour. 

“Why did you say that?” 

“I say a lot of things, Princess.” 

Ignoring his comment, she pressed onwards. 

“About me.” 

“Because you’re just as much a victim as we are.” 

_Because you’re just as much a victim as we are._

She doesn’t know why that resonates as he walks away, turning down a corridor that he hadn’t a slither of a clue to where it takes him. 

She muses it’s fitting, as she hadn’t a clue as to where they were headed either. 

—

He hisses as the alcohol meets his skin, a burning sensation spreading through his body. Minato doesn’t need a mirror to know he looks like shit and just had his ass served on a platter to him, he already feels like it. 

He digs his nails into his palms as Kirijo sews the cut shut, feeling the skin push and pull like she was knitting some shitty Christmas sweater. 

“Hold still.” She mutters.

“Kinda hard when you’re being sewed up like a teddy bear at Build-A-Bear Workshop.” Retorts the teen, wincing at when the needle tugs his skin a little _too_ hard. 

He’s ready to say something about it before she extends her palm, beckoning for him to pass her the bandages. 

“You didn’t have to help me, I could’ve healed myself.” 

She quirks a brow. “You had a broken arm, sprained foot, burns, deep cuts, bruises—”

“Ok, ok! I get it!” Exclaimed Arisato, feeling the aching pain beginning to settle in as she listed his several injuries. 

He expects her to leave in order to assist the others with their injuries, however, she lingers for a moment. Her fingers brushing across his upper back, reading the calligraphy inked on in bold. 

“Memento Mori.”

“Remember you will die.” He finishes in an instant, the quote ingrained into him. 

“You know Latin?” She asked, curiosity piqued at the sudden profoundness the boy offered. 

“I took solace with the Romans and their writings, I guess. I know a few phrases if that’s what you're asking.” 

He’s a tad puzzled by her sudden interest, expecting a scolding on the tattoo plastered on his back. 

“Do you have a favorite?” 

“Mors tua, vita mea,” he stops for a moment, feeling her wrap the bandages around him. “Your death, my life.” 

It’s simple to him, yet it represents far too much for what’s happened. 

She’s silent after that. 

—

It doesn’t feel real, she notes. It feels as though it’s an endless nightmare with no end in sight, one she so desperately wants to wake from. 

It rains, peculiar for the November weather. She glances out from the Student Council room, gazing out as God sheds his tears onto their earthly plain. 

Arisato sits across from her, diligently jotting down a report. Arisato has pretty handwriting when he tries, she muses.

Why is she here? There’s much to do, funerals to plan, executives to deal with, business to run. 

Why is she here with _him_? She has no answers to her questions, only observing Arisato and outlining the features that cause him to stand out like a sore thumb in such a formal setting. His zeffre hair began to grow out from his undercut, strands spraying down his face while he worked intently. She’s surprised at how well he contributes to the council, bringing fresh and new ideas to every meeting.

His report, handwritten to show his utmost care, details the reasons and pros of keeping the Persimmon tree they have at the school. Mitsuru hasn’t a clue as to why he goes through all these hurdles to save a tree, but knowing Arisato there’s surely some significance to it. 

Gently, he sets his pen down, checking his watch in the process. Ice meets hazel for a moment, and she hears him mumble something. 

Something about hoping a “Maiko” got home okay? Nonetheless, her interest was piqued. 

“Maiko?” Says Mitsuru, unknowingly, out loud. 

“A….” He paused, unable to form a word that seems suitable. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” 

“No, it’s fine. I should’ve kept to myself.” He doesn’t immediately continue, seemingly fascinated with the dribbling rain that streamed down the window. “She’s a friend, I meant to meet her today, promised her some takoyaki. But I guess I lost track of time, didn’t I?” Sheepishly, he rubs the small of his neck. 

Why does it...sting, a little? Arisato and her are...what _are_ they? He’s been much kinder to her since Yakushima, still a thorn in her side at times, but kind. She knows things now, things that have shattered her former image of who Arisato was and reshaped it.

He has a taste for the arts, extremely knowledgeable in Latin literature, and has a soft spot for the classics if it fancies him. He isn’t dumb, (or, quoting him, “What even _is_ dumb?”) he’s far from it, truly.

Arisato makes her think, truly, magnificently, think. He fails at things, he is not knowledgable in things and isn’t as smart as her by academic standards. However, in her own biased opinion, Arisato is _the_ smartest among them. He’s walking poetry to her. 

And just like poetry, it is beautiful. He’s like art, subjective and misinterpreted at times, yet incredible and brilliant simultaneously. 

And it hits her, Arisato _is_ art. Arisato, in his troubled, roughed edges, kindness, is a beautiful magnum opus created by society. 

And she has the pleasure of marveling at it. Yet she wants more, and the realization knocks the wind straight from her lungs. Mitsuru wants this battle-worn painting away from its display and framed above her mantle. She wants it to be _hers_. 

“You okay, Red? You look a little pale there.” He inches closer, pressing the back of his hand against her forehead as if it’s a simple gesture with no implications whatsoever. “Have you been getting enough sleep? I’m sure Kirijo-sans passing has been ha-”

He’s close, so close she can distinguish what each individual necklace wrapped around him means. So close she can see what each unique pin pinned upon his blazer is, so close she could-

“Well,” He breaks, removing his hand, evidently uncomfortable with the silence between them. “I should...go.” 

She clears her throat. “Of course, I’ll finish up here.” He nods, gathering his things and his report before stalking off. However, she catches him before he has the chance to exit. “Before you go,” The bluenette turns to meet her. “I’d like to counter with memento vivere.” 

He raises a brow. “Remember to live?” He pauses, clearly puzzled that she even remembers that conversation. “Are we pitting them against each other now?”

“If that's how you choose to interpret it.” 

He thinks for a moment, checks his watch, and flashes a small smile. A rare break from his usual scowl before he stalks off. 

She’s left alone with her thoughts, her incredibly loud thoughts that bring her back to the present. It would never work, _they_ couldn't work. She’s threatened to be engaged, she has a company to run, she is everything he _hates_. 

So she has no other choice but to bury her feelings along with her father. 

—

There’s a solemn mood that dangles in the cold, muggy air. Minato never was a fan of funerals, he’s been to one too many now, really. There are faint murmurs as the priest speaks, ones Arisato doesn’t bother tuning into. 

It’s not like they cared for Kirijo-san anyway, they’re simply vultures here to pick off the remaining meat.

Which, in this case, would be Mitsuru. She’s as stoic as always as they lower the casket, never letting her mask slip. He feels out of place here, these are the people who look _down_ on people like him. They despise him, probably currently whispering on what a miscreant he is to be here among the elites. 

He’s here for one thing, and one thing only, though. Usually, Minato likes being the sword to someone's shield. However, today he had no issue with being _her_ shield. Minato stood diligently beside Mitsuru, like a guard dog protecting its treasures, or as Cereberus protecting the Underworld.

He assumes his appearance would frighten off any coming to take advantage of a grieving girl, his reason for being her plus one to this event. However, the more he begins to think, the more he realized Akihiko could’ve sufficed. Or Takeba with her zero bullshit policy, hell, even _Junpei_ could’ve gotten the job done. 

Wouldn’t she have wanted Akihiko here, instead? This was a private, personal moment. Wouldn’t have someone she’s known for much longer have been a better candidate? 

“What are you thinking about?” She whispers, attempting to avoid unnecessary attention.

“Your counter.” He lies straight through his teeth. “I thought about it.”

“And?”

“I think you can’t have one without the other.” There's no response as they both stare ahead, workers beginning to shovel the dirt back into the ground. “I think pitting one against the other is stupid, and defeats their purpose. They're here to remind us of our mortality, and how we should make the most of it.”

She doesn’t say anything, and he thinks he understands. Minato reaches into his suit pocket, a rental for the funeral, and retrieves a book. It’s paperback, the size of his hand with a simplistic blue cover. He hands it to her, and the title stuns her. 

“ _In Praise Of Folly?_ I didn’t take you for one to take part in classic literature.” 

“It’s for you, even if you might not have a lot of time to read right now with what comes after this.” He said, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. 

“What’s it about?” She queries, flipping through the pages.

“Satire of the Church.” He earned himself a modest chuckle with that.

“Of course it is.” Says Mitsuru, tucking it away in her pocket and glancing back to the burial. “Arisato,” She glances to look at him and he returns her gaze. “Can we...leave?” He sees the discomfort she has as she says it and the ever-present confliction etched onto her features. “Or would that be...wrong?”

He shrugs, playing with one of the rings he has on. “Personal opinion?” She nods. “Fuck funerals.” He speaks that a little too loudly as some heads turn to their direction. “I mean, really, wouldn’t you want your last memory of them to be happy? Not them being buried surrounded by people who never cared for them?”

He observes her glancing around, his words dangling in the air. The people here are business executives and board members, he hardly doubted that any one of them truly _cared_ that Kirijo-san died, really. They are simply there to take their pickings.

He mused that his words resonated with her as Mitsuru turns and surfs through the crowd, choosing to leave.

—

He fiddles with his tie as they walk through Iwatodai, leaving it loosely hanging in the end. He didn’t like how formal he looked, anyway. Grey clouds form above them as they foreshadowed rain, another day of God weeping. 

He’s not entirely sure how to console her, funerals simply cause the realization that one is dead and will not be returning. 

“So, what’s our plan?” 

“Plan? For what?”

“We still have shadows to beat.” 

Thunder rumbles. “I have no idea.” Mitsuru is quiet, uneasily quiet. Not thinking quiet, an unfamiliarity quiet. “I suppose I’m open to suggestions, now.”

Another boom from above as Zeus throws his temper tantrum. “Beat whatever's coming till it dies.” 

“And here I was beginning to think you were actually eloquent.” 

“Don’t think _too_ highly of me.” Says Minato, feeling the cool droplets beginning to precipitate from the sky. “But I guess those are problems for tomorrow.” They stand there for what can only be a few minutes as the rain descends. They make no effort to move, wallowing in the pooling water.

“Arisato,” Mitsuru doesn’t turn to meet him, however, her tone has grown much more somber than their earlier banter. “If I was, hypothetically, interested in someone, and knew we could never be together, would that be...wrong?”

Why does that hurt? She’s a friend, a friend he can share a part of him that he rarely allows anyone to see, a friend he can feel safe around, a _friend-_

_Oh._

She finally turns to face him, rain chilling them to their bone. He never noticed how awfully pretty her eyes are, filled to the brim with the intelligence he could never hope to achieve in his lifetime. He could get lost in them, dive in, and never want to come back up for air. 

She waits intently for an answer, and he sees that flicker of _something_.

Hope? Sorrow? Yearning? Who was it for? Who managed to steal and melt her icy heart?

And why is he disappointed it’s not him who has it? Even if, in the slight, off, chance it is him, they would never work. People talk, her people don’t like people like him. They would throw him out, they would never accept them. _Him_. 

Not to mention she could do so much better.

She _deserves_ so much better. He toys with his ring, twisting and turning it as the freezing rain pours down upon them.

“No. I don’t think so.” Minato settles on. Mitsuru does not respond, but simply stands there and nods. It’s not a nod of understanding, though, it's a snails nod. One of sorrow, of realization. 

They're going to catch a cold if they stand out here for much longer, he remarks. He lends her his blazer for her to use as a makeshift umbrella, it’s shitty, but it’ll give some protection. 

“We should go.” She glances at his rolled-up sleeves, tattoos inked upon his arms, and notices one that was not there before. She grabs his left arm, seeing the inked letters written upon his wrist. “Couldn’t have one without the other, right?” He jests, seeing her run her soaked thumb across the lettering.

Memento Vivere etched and inked upon his left wrist. He prays she won’t ask when he had the time to get it, let alone _where_ he got it. She darts her eyes to meet his, searching his face for any sign of...what _is_ she searching for? 

“Arisato.” He’s not sure where this is going, where _they_ are going. Her thumb trails to his palm before her fingers interlock with his, bringing him closer.

The whole world is silent for the next few moments as they stand there, unsure of whether to continue whatever _this_ is. Is this what he thinks it is? Was he fucking stupid? Was he reading too hard into things? Was he on the verge of fucking everything up if he misreads these signs?

“You can do so much better.” He breathes out as they inch so close he can make out each individual droplet on her face. Her free hand snapes around his neck while she hesitates, centimeters away from his lips.

Mitsuru shakes her head. “Shut up.”

And he feels every worry he’s ever had melt away as they stand in the pouring rain, catching a cold, and kissing her. He knows, deep down, it would never work. They are far too different, far too imperfect, diverging paths that will inevitably split off. 

He pulls away, hair sagging from the rain, and presses his forehead against hers.

“We can’t.” He whispers, broken voice barely above a whisper.

“Why?” She mutters, knowing the answer deep in her bones. Her hands snake to cup his face, feeling Minato’s cold eyes dig into her. 

“You know why.” Suddenly, Minato feels self-conscious about himself for the first time in years. He doesn’t know whether he could handle the thousands of judgemental eyes that would be trained upon him, the dirty looks from suitors he would receive, the disgust he would see from executives if they were to continue forward.

And he knows she knows too. 

“You are the most magnificent person I have ever met, Minato,” he trains his eyes to the floor as she uses his first name. “I would be a fool to give you up so easily.” 

Arisato Minato cannot remember the last time he has ever felt so loved. 

She continues. “You are incredible in every form of that word. You are a walking, living, breathing piece of art. Art that rivals even the most talented and infamous artists.”

“Kirijo, I-” 

The rain drowns out any sound other than her voice. 

“I love you.”

Take it back, he wants to say. Tell him it was a joke, an accident, _anything_. Because once he says it back he’ll fall apart, once he says it back he can’t reclaim it.

Once he says it back all his walls will crumble down, and she will see him for what he is.

Will it scare her? That the scowling, glaring punk, is actually a scared little boy? Scratch that, he’s a _terrified_ little boy. Is he ready? Can he say “I love you” for the first time in years? Once the words are out there, he cannot take them back. 

Hot, fresh, tears coarse down his face and blend in with the rain. Fuck, he can’t—he _won’t_ cry. 

Say the fucking words, he chastises. Say those three damn words and be happy for once in your miserable, pitiful life. Be better than you are for once and let someone in, let them see you for who you really are.

Who is he? Is he the scared little boy who watched his parents die in front of him? Who hides his tears behind a scowl? Who hides his scars behind tattoos?

Who can’t say “I love you?” back? 

He opens his mouth to form words, but he can’t. Only a sob echoes out.

Fucking liar, you said you wouldn’t cry. 

He pulls away from her embrace, shaking his head and wiping away his tears.

He chokes. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” 

He paces in front of her, striding away as the rain pounds down onto him. Lip quivering as she calls out his name, as he ruins something yet again. 

—

She’s soaked to the brim when she arrives back at the dorm, unable to hear the inhabitants of the lounge's words as she stalks up the stairs and into her room, a soaked, hefty, blazer wrapped around her. 

Everything was there, everything seemed to be reciprocated, so _why did he walk away?_ Had she screwed everything up, now? Was it her fault? Did she misread him? 

She soaks in the boiling water until it grows warm, absently staring at the book on her table. The book he gave her, the book she cannot bring herself to read now. She had not realized how important he had become to her, the boy she thought she hated.

_Because you’re just as much a victim as we are._

  
  


_Mors tua, vita mea._

  
  


_Memento Mori_

  
  


_Memento Vivere_

  
  


_In Praise Of Folly_

  
  


**_“I can’t. I’m sorry.”_ **

What couldn’t he do? Be with her? Was this rejection? Did she do something _wrong?_ Does she want to cry? Does she want to be angered? What _should_ she be feeling?  
  


All she felt was a stinging pain in her heart, however, she could not tell if it was for her father or for Arisato. 

Eventually, when the water has grown cold, she dresses herself and crawls into bed, sleep eventually enveloping her in its peaceful arms.

—

They avoid each other like they are the plague. The team notices, of course. However, they keep whatever they wish to say to themselves. Eventually, however, someone _has_ to step in. It’s who ends up playing matchmaker that surprises him, though. 

“So, a little birdie told me you and the Student Council President are, uh, _close_.” The freshly transferred student leans against his desk. 

“Fuck off, Mochizuki.” 

“C’mon!” The teen presses. “What’s going on between you two? Secret affair? Enemies to lovers? Friends with benefits?” Ryoji is simply met with silence and a glare. “Ok, gee. Nothing to go off on here, is there?”

Minato can’t really answer these questions, truthfully. He doesn’t know where they stand anymore, he feels as though they are strangers. He convinces himself— _lies_ to himself—that they could never be what they wanted themselves to be. The divide between them is far too large, so large if he were to jump he would surely tumble into the chasm below. 

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t woefully miss their late night conversations that ranged from impactful pieces of history to absolute stupidity. He missed the laugh he could earn from her if he tried hard enough, and how the tint of the Dark Hour would bring out the highlights of her eyes. 

Minato fiddles with the cross pendant that dangles from his neck, just a small fragment from the assortment of necklaces he wears. He’s not religious, far from it really, however for Mitsuru...he would perhaps consider believing in a God.

If he were to have to describe her to a blind man the only appropriate answer would be Aphrodites beauty and the mind of Athena embodied into a singular person. 

“Hey, are you even listening to me?” Mochizuki pouts, obviously bothered with Arisato.

“I’m definitely not.” 

“You don’t have to be so mean all the time, you know?”

Yes. Yes, he does. 

Minato curls his lip into a scowl and wonders how Mochizuki even has the balls to talk to him. It’s not like he _tries_ to tone down his appearance at school, in fact, he’d say he looks, even more,intimidating here. The underclassmen are terrified of the boy with eyebrow and lip piercings that they clear out of the way whenever they see him.

Well, he muses, most _everyone_ is terrified of him. He can’t say he blames them, to be honest. He _does_ look like he participates in illegal activities and has a body count. No one has ever tried to take the time to get to know him, however, it’s not like he makes it _easy_. 

It’s better this way, no attachments. No loose ends, no one to mourn him if he dies in the field. No one to hurt him when they grow tired of his antics and, like they all eventually do, leave. He hadn’t a clue as to why Mochizuki is so deeply fascinated with him, and Minato is half tempted to throw him into Tartarus.

“Just fuck _off_ already.” He seethes, not wanting to think about the Juliet in this tragedy he describes as his life. 

“Gee, man, you’ve been in a piss poor state lately, huh?” A capped teen wraps his arm around Arisato. “Why don’t you come with us to some karaoke?” 

“I’m busy.” 

“Doing what? Moping around and brooding? C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

Minato catches himself wanting to say he’ll be with Mitsuru by habit. “I have math homework.”

Junpei quirks a brow. “Since when have you done homework?”

Since he’s realized it’s an easy distraction. “We have exams in a month, it’ll be good practice.”

“Since when did you care about exams?”

Since he realized it made her proud when he passed them. The 5 days since the funeral have jerked the realization that he had become dependent on her, and old habits die hard. 

“Gee, you’re no fun. You better not be like this during the Kyoto trip.” Says Junpei in response to Arisato’s silence 

Shit, the trip. How could he forget about that? Will Mitsuru becoming? Parts of him prayed she wouldn’t, it would be easier for the both of them, honestly speaking. Or, easier for his selfish self. 

“Yeah, sure.” Minato toys with one of his rings absentmindedly, noting how he does this habit far too often nowadays. 

“Leave him alone, you guys.” _Another_ person? At this rate, the entire class will be surrounding his desk. Yukari shoos Junpei and Ryoji off, watching them tread away. She focuses her line of sight on Minato, who begins to pack his things. “Hey, have you been doing ok?”

Here it comes.

“Haven’t seen you and Senpai talk a lot since the funeral, did everything go ok? You guys came back soaking wet and wouldn’t respond to us.”

He’s not sure how to respond to that without tipping anything away. “We...figured it would be best if we kept our distance from each other. She wouldn’t want any distractions as she handles the Group.” It’s not _entirely_ a lie, Minato is sure their 3 A.M conversations took a toll on both of their sleep schedules. They had been growing much too dependent on each other, he doesn’t want to rely on someone else for anything. 

She’s skeptical, of course. She hardly makes an effort to conceal it. “Really?” Yukari’s arms cross. “I guess she has been pretty distant with all of us, so it would make sense.” 

He narrows his eyes. “There’s nothing going on between us anymore if that's what your—”

“ _Any more_?”

God _damn_ it. 

“No, that's not what I meant—”

“Holy shit, did you break up with her?”

Minato itched to pull his hair out of frustration. “Can I talk?” Takeba rolls her eyes and nods. “We decided to keep our distance. There’s your answer.” 

“So, you did break up with her.”

“That would imply we were dating in the first place.” 

“You guys _weren’t?_ ”

Just what the hell have his dorm mates been saying behind his back?

—

They see each other, as they board the train. Her eyes meet his for a mere second, and they stay there. He hadn’t seen her eyes in days, and vice versa.

And, because the universe absolutely _adores_ him, she’s assigned his classes chaperone during the ride. As he takes his seat, she lingers beside his aisle. 

“Do you need something, Senpai?” His voice is out there, but the usual casualness has evaporated. It’s formal as he gazes out the window. From her reflection, Minato can notice how her jaw clenches.

“Of course not, Arisato. I was simply here to return this.” Mitsuru drops a book on the free seat beside him, its royal blue color catching his eye before she stalks off. He grabs it, flipping through the brittle pages. A flash of color catches his eye, though. Near the end, a mere sentence is highlighted.

_“A Fool oft speak a seasonable Truth.”_

He’s puzzled, for a moment. What? How does this have any significance? Was this meant for him? For her? Does it apply to their current predicament? What the _fuck_ does it _mean_? He reads it countless times again and again to no avail. 

Minato places the book down, intaking a breath as he runs his thumb across the paperback cover. The title staring him down and searing itself into his skull.

_In Praise Of Folly_

The gift that just keeps on giving. 

—

He loiters by the riverbank, intaking how the water reflects the dipping sun on the horizon. He sits, basking in the scene, fiddling with the ring on his finger. 

The rocks roll and move as footsteps break him from his thoughts. He glances to see who comes to disrupt him and is met with a vibrant red, the orange sun tinting her hair. 

Minato stands, preparing to leave.

“We need to talk.” 

The four fateful, vengeful words he had been anticipating. 

“We’re talking.” He says, leaning down to pick up a rock. He smoothed over the stone, deeming it suitable enough. “So, that’s one box checked off.” 

“You know that’s not what I mean.” Rocks crackle beneath her as Mitsuru moves closer towards him. 

Minato shuts an eye, angling his stone. “Maybe I don’t.” He flicks his wrist, watching the stone skip, skip, and finally sink. “Maybe I’m not as smart as you make me out to be.” 

She stands beside him, arms folded, and an unreadable look on her face. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.” 

Here they go. 

“I’d argue you give me too _much_ credit.” He says, an awkward silence soon following. 

“I wanted to...apologize. I should’ve,” she purses her lips. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

No, no, _no_. It’s not—it’s _his_ fault. 

“No, stop. It was—it was _my_ fault.” He begins to toy with one of his rings. “I—” he doesn’t want to talk about it, he doesn’t want to feel weak and helpless in this situation. “I wasn’t ready.” 

Tentatively, Mitsuru comes a tad closer to him. “No, I shouldn’t have sprung all that on you. I should’ve given you time.” 

“We can’t.” He doesn’t want to say it, yet it slips out. He’d ruin her image, he’d ruin _her_. “I’m not—I’m not the person you want.” 

She’s close enough to cup his cheek, although he can see how she debated doing it. “What makes you say that?” 

“ _A Fool oft speak a seasonable Truth_ ,” he backs away, quoting the book. “Aren’t I the Fool here?” 

“If you are, then what _is_ the Truth?” 

“I’m not the one for you.” 

“Isn’t that simply the most convenient excuse for you?” 

He stumbles over his words, her own analysis setting in. Is—is it an excuse? An excuse to not wound others, wound _himself?_ Is it a temporary truth, a convenient lie? 

Fuck, he always hated philosophy. 

He met her gaze, her cinnamon eyes brighter as the pumpkin sky reflected in them. It hurt to look at her, often. To know that Aphrodite’s grace upon this world would eventually belong to someone else. 

To know the reincarnation of his Eurydice would not belong to him, the Orpheus in this tragedy. All of a sudden his Persona makes much, much more sense. 

“I don’t know if I can do it.” Is the statement he mumbles out, feeling his courage deflate little by little. 

Mitsuru straightens the pins on his blazer, meticulously examining each and every enamel and button he’s pinned upon him. 

“Do you want this, Arisato?” 

Does he? 

She is right here, right in front of him, _waiting_ for him. Every time he pictures her with someone else, he’s met with this pain in his chest and ache in his heart. 

He’d wonder how she’d look wearing his jacket, he’d wonder what she would think if he let his hair grow out, he’d wonder what she’d think if she saw him for what he is. 

He does, he certainly does. 

And he doesn’t, he so painfully doesn’t. 

They’ll end in tragedy, just as Orpheus and Eurydice did. As Romeo and Juliet did. As Achilles and Patroclus did. 

He’s terrified of what this will bring, yet riveted at the same time. Minato checks his wrist, “memento vivere” searing into his mind as it did his skin. 

They all died, however, they were happy for a time. 

Couldn’t he have the same thing? 

She waits patiently for an answer, and he’s not sure if he can give her one. 

“Yeah, I do. But…” He can’t formulate words, beginning to feel a frog in his throat. “I know this won’t end well.” 

Her fingers brush across his hand. “Why do you say that?” 

_Look_ at them, he wants to scream. _Look_ at what has _happened_ , _look_ at what they _represent_. 

“Heroes don’t get happy endings.” He stutters out. Kirijo embraces him, and he falters.

“Then let’s hope the ending doesn’t come soon.” She pulls away, resting her head against his. 

Gently, Minato cups her cheek. First loves hardly ever last, and a gut part of him knows tragedy will come and claim their story as its own one day. But, a tragedy takes time. Build up, slow burn. This is the beginning of something better than them, the beginning of something better than _him_. 

Is it better to speak, or to die?

People wallow in their fear, he’s seen it, wallowed in the what-ifs and their silence as they refuse to take that leap of faith. He’s taken so many leaps this year, what is another to him? 

Slowly, Minato brings her lips to his, leaping across that gaping chasm between them. 

He isn’t sure if he can say those 3 impactful words just yet, there are too many layers to unravel before he can even think of achieving that. He’s heard them said so many times around him that they’ve practically lost their meaning. And yet, he still can’t bring himself to say them.

“Is that a yes?” Breathes Mitsuru.

“No shit, Sherlock.” 

—

Minato is several things, however, he doesn’t like to consider himself a _liar_. 

Kirijo—er, he supposes Mitsuru now? Trails behind him, giggling as he leads her through the bustling Kyoto streets. “Where are you taking me?”

There's a few tourists and locals out that night, where Minato had managed to convince her to skip the hot springs and come out with him instead. He’s not much of a romantic, he lies to himself while dragging her along.

“You’ll see.” There’s a smug little grin that spreads on his face, his lip piercing expanding as his lips do. She rolls her eyes and reaches for his hand. He’s startled for a mere moment, and she’s unsure if she’s been too forward already before Minato reciprocates.

What a scene, he muses. There’s a pure, raw, blissful feeling that brims in him till he can’t take any more of it. It overflows in him while she holds onto his hand. This feeling, he wanted to feel every day, one he never wanted to slip through his fingers like shifting sand. 

There are few, rare looks from passersby when they see the two. And he can’t say he blames them, they are polar opposites from each other in every which way. Their posture, their speech, their dressing, all on opposite sides of the fictional societal spectrum. 

Nonetheless, he can hardly recall a time he was this happy. Minato leads them down the streets, passing shops and restaurants and whatever other tourist attraction placed to distract them. 

“Where are we, Minato?” She queries as they step through the glass doors, glancing around the furnished lobby and booths.

“Gee, no clue.” He replies dryly, gesturing to the dim lights, velvet ropes, ticket booths, and a plethora of movie posters decorating the walls. Oh, and the two tickets he waved around. 

For the umpteenth time that night, Mitsuru rolled her eyes. “Where did you even get those?”

He shrugs, pulling her along through the velvet ropes and relatively empty lobby. “Mochizuki gave them to me since he couldn’t find anyone to go with.” 

“Mochizuki? Of all people?”

There’s an exasperated look on his face, and he realizes he hasn’t told her jack-shit about what Mochizuki’s been doing to him. “Just appreciate the movie.” 

The ticket caster, an old lady, gives him an odd look when he presents the tickets. It’s not every day you someone like him with someone like Mitsuru, he notes. The woman, albeit reluctantly, gives him his tickets back and allows their passage. 

—

She arrives at the Bridge mere moments after Arisato does, and in those split seconds Minato has drawn his evoker and held it tightly around his fingers. His gaze is locked onto Mochizuki, alive and unharmed during this sickly hour. An unresponsive and severely damaged Aigis lies a few feet away, and the only thing running through her mind is what happened here?

Mochizuki doesn’t appear aggressive, however, she wishes she could say the same for Minato. 

She attempts to call out to the unruly teen. “Minato-” 

There is an audible smack that silences her, which is odd considering Mitsuru was suspecting the familiar sound of a Persona being summoned. Mochizuki stumbles to the asphalt, dumbfounded while Minato grips his evoker.

Is he...using the evoker as a _blunt force weapon?_ Arisato raises to strike once more before she stops him, his look of terrible rage swiftly morphing into one of shock. 

“He isn’t showing signs of aggression.” Her hand rests on his shoulder in a pitiful attempt to soothing this irrational anger. He debates, shrugging off her hand, gritting his teeth, and towering above Mochizuki.

“Give us one good reason we shouldn’t throw you off this bridge.” 

“Arisato.” She scolds, astonished at his threat. Arisato would jest with them, making similar comments from time to time, however, they were all in good humor. This one was not, it was a pure, unrelenting threat. Mitsuru observed him, his shoulders squared and risen in tension, his fists balled, and a cold gritted gaze carved onto his features. 

He was _angry_. Not in a _frustrated_ type angry, in an _outrage_ type. With the ire he burned into Mochizuki one would suspect the boy had murdered Minato’s entire family. Arisato yanked Mochizuki by the collar, bringing him face to face.

“Well?!” 

“That’s enough,” Mitsuru, forcefully, separated the two. Arisato itched to protest, however before he opened his mouth, she spoke. “I want you with Aigis, now.” 

“That _thing_ did all this,” Arisato seethed, gesturing at the ruins of the bridge and Aigis. “We can’t just let him walk _free_.”

Mitsuru, sternly, says, “Then it will be a team decision with what we do with Mochizuki.” Her hand rests on one of his squared shoulders in a pathetic effort to soothe his fury. 

He snarls, brushing off her hand. “Then you're all _fools_.” 

She observes him stalk off to assist Aigis and brush off the others' questions, an unknown anger ever-present on his face. If his words stung her, she did not allow it to show. This was not like him, and something was clearly bothering him to suggest _manslaughter_. 

—

Everything sets in, and there is nothing but _frustration_ that remains. How naive, he seethes, for even _thinking_ he could let his guard down for a second. For thinking he had _time_ before his story was ever going to come to its tragic close.

A month. A fucking _month_ to decide if he should let his friends live in blissful ignorance until the end of the fucking _world_. Everything rested on his worn and weary shoulders, and he was so sick of it. Sick of feeling helpless, of not knowing what other twisted thing fate wanted to throw his way.

Every small, minuscule, angered and helpless feeling boiled to the top until it began to tip over. Every painful, repressed memory swimming to the surface practically gasping for air and attention. 

The smell of burnt flesh, the heat of the fire, the feeling of absolute _weakness_ as his family burned before his eyes. Everything he wanted to forget, everything he wanted to fight and push back down came rushing back into him. Ryoji—that _shadow—_ was a catalyst for all these feelings brimming to the top. 

Since his parents died, he hopped from foster home to foster home. Minato Arisato learned a few things from each foster parent and school he went to.

1\. Fostering an orphan pays good money.

2\. Violence is a universal language.

3\. Never, ever, show weakness. 

Minato stands in the middle of his bare room, unsure whether he wants to cry or beat something up. His whole life he was an outcast, the orphaned boy, that he just started to embrace it. One day, getting pummeled in the bathroom, you just _snap_. From that point onward, he had to scream for people to give him attention, to _respect_ him. 

Maybe that was why he got into so many fights, why he dressed and acted as he did. 

He makes his way over to the sink, unsure of whether who he sees in the mirror is a better or a lesser version of himself. All he sees, though, is that small, helpless, child on that bridge that fateful day. That small, scared, little boy who has the weight of the world upon his small shoulders.

He never asked to be Atlus, he never asked for _any_ of this. His face scrunches in anger as hot tears lapse down his cheeks, and he understands that the only thing he’s ever known is violence as he hopelessly throws the soap bottle that rested on the sink at the mirror. It bounces off, scuttering to the floor. 

He never liked the mirror, he never liked _himself_ , are his thoughts as he rips out the mirror, throwing the poor item onto the floor. In an instant, it shatters into a thousand tiny pieces and scatters about the tile floor. 

Sweat drips down from his chin, heavy, ragged breaths leaving him as the mirror mocks him with its distorted vision of Minato reflecting back through the broken pieces. 

Everything is _wrong_. He’s a kid, it's not _fair_. 

It's not fair. 

The items on his shelves are yanked around his room. 

It’s not _fair_. 

The items on his desk come sliding off. 

It’s not _fucking_ **fair**. 

There is nothing left to destroy when he looks for another thing to out his anger on, his room completely and utterly trashed. His bed sheets gone, strewn about the floor, his TV toppled over, displaying static, mini-fridge spilled open, lights flickering and humming low. 

And all he felt was worse than before, with no definitive answer and memories still fresh. Which meant, there was really only one thing left to do. Minato sunk to the floor, a fresh set of tears boiling out. 

The door creaked open, allowing the hallway light to bleed in and show the trainwreck of a state he and his room was. He doesn’t want to see her, honestly, he was an asshole earlier. He can’t speak to say sorry, though, he can’t speak or else he might wail incomprehensible sobs. 

She doesn’t say anything while she shifts through the chaotic floor, sitting down against the sturdy wall he leaned on. 

“Better?” She queries, never catching his gaze. He shakes his head, a clear and evident “no.” Minato bites his lip, not wanting to cry right then and there. “I see.” 

“Sorry.” He manages out, breathing shaky and frantic. Mitsuru doesn’t say anything, simply allowing her hand to meet the growing hair on his side. 

“Are you growing your hair out?” 

He forces a tiny, pitiful smile. “No haircut t-time.” Fuck, he stuttered. For certain, if he spoke once more would he burst into tears. 

There’s an apologetic look in her eyes, one he remembered seeing in her father. “You don’t have to be strong with me all the time, Minato.” 

Of course, he does, he wishes he could stay. If he isn’t, then you’ll leave him just like the rest. If he’s not, then he’ll be discarded like yesterday's garbage. These walls have been here for years, he couldn’t let them crumble so damn easily. 

Yet, she was tearing all of them down already. He bit his lip, glancing away. 

“You can cry, Minato, it’s _ok_.” 

Stubbornly, he shakes his head. However, the tears that race down without his permission counter his statement. They won’t stop, they won’t fucking _stop_ no matter how hard he begs for them too. 

Every single unshed tear for his family and himself begin their sorrowful descent as he can only sob into Mitsuru’s shoulder. They burn like hot iron as he is forced to relive who he cries for, as he’s forced to confront his repressed feelings. 

Mitsuru pulls him into her easily now, his face burrowing into her shoulder as her Atlus finally lets the weight of the world fall. 

—

It’s much better when she’s around, he muses while she examines the pins on his jacket. It helps him forget that he has to decide if they choose to fight in a hopeless situation in the coming week, so Mitsuru is obviously a welcomed distraction.

“I got you something.” He speaks, adjusting his arms that we’re comfortably placed around her to reach for his jacket pocket. He retrieved a small, velvet box the size of his palm. 

“Minato-” She’s shut off as he opens it, a lapel pin resting comfortably in the center of the box. An owl, outlined in gold and filled with black. 

“Owls are the animal of Athena,” he begins, taking the pin out and gesturing if she would allow him to place it on. “The Greek Goddess of war, strategy, and wisdom.” He lifts her red ribbon a tad, pinning it into place. 

“Minato,” Mitsuru struggled to find the words that could properly describe her feelings. “I...thank you.” She brings his hands into hers, stroking his hands and the rings that were adorned on his fingers. 

There’s a hint of a blush present on his face. 

“I-it’s no big deal or anything. I just associate you with Athena, is all.” He doesn’t meet her gaze, and she realizes he’s _blushing_. 

“Are you... _blushing_?” There’s a laugh that leaves her, one that only deepens Minato’s reddening cheeks. 

“N-no! You must be-be seeing things!” Is Minato’s pathetic attempt at a defense. He’s going to continue onwards before he feels her lips on his, all of his words melting away as butterflies form in his stomach like they do every time he sees her. 

A part of him wonders if he should say it, say those three little words that he wants to say back. Nonetheless, he decides against it as she goes back in for another kiss, and another, and another, and—ow. 

He stumbles onto the soft mattress and laughs. A rare, joyful, little sound of a laugh is what he emits, a stupid smile on his face when she falls with him. 

She wishes that it could be like this every day with him, her beautiful piece of art that she had stolen away and framed above her mantle. 

And he wishes that he could freeze these moments, the moments his very own Eurydice is still his.

“ _Nunc scio quid sit Amor_.” Smiles Minato, running his thumb across her cheek and brushing his lips against hers. 

Mitsuru breaks away. “What?” 

“Nothing, just some stupid little words.” It obviously doesn’t convince her, however, she doesn’t seem too eager to press on at the moment. 

Rolling her eyes, Mitsuru says, “Of course.” She leans down, resting her head against his chest, taking solace in his rhythmic breathing and beating heart. “Minato-” 

“Minato,” He repeats, dumbfounded. She says his name so casually, so wonderfully, it’s as if it’s her own language. She does so much to him with just a simple name. “ _Minato_.” 

“That’s your name, is it not?” Mitsuru rolls to her side, meeting his ice eyes that seem so much warmer now. He scans her, this look in his eyes she’d never seen before. 

“Call me by your name and I’ll call you by mine.” He speaks, voice barely above a whisper. His declaration for her ears only. 

“Mitsuru.” She said, somewhat puzzled yet remained intrigued. 

“Minato.” He responded, a smile growing on his features. 

“Mitsuru.” She repeated, his infectious smile spreading to hers as she wrapped her arms around his neck. 

“Minato.” He said, and they kissed for another time. And several more after, and their kisses strayed well into the night that the change of time had never even occurred to them. 

They had fallen so far into each other like acrobats, however, they knew that they had no safety net to catch them if they hit the ground. 

—

Mitsuru was one thing, stubborn. And she was never a fan of being proven wrong, either. However, if he were here, she knew he would be telling her “I told you so.” 

His jacket, decorated in his prized lapels, buttons, enamels, and every other pin in between rested in her hands. She held it so delicately as though if it were to break she’d lose the last piece she has of him. 

Which, in a way, is true. 

Mitsuru does not know how long it has been since she held him on that rooftop, where he said those stupid little words to her. 

_“I love you.” He beamed, brushing his pale lips against hers, and cupping her cheek before his hand fell slack._

And the only times he said it, and will ever say it. Her hands tremble as she wraps his infamous leather jacket around her, the faint scent of his cheap cologne still ever-present and tainted upon the fabric. 

Each pin that adorned it had a story, one he would rave about every night. The lyre enamel was always his favorite, the one he introduced to her first. 

She could not bring herself to adjust these sacred pins this time around, for fear that if she did she would lose the captured essence of him they carried. 

Mitsuru feels as though she was tracing the tattoos on his body only yesterday, however, for all she could remember, it could’ve been months ago. 

He suffered in silence when his biggest fear was being forgotten, for them. For _her_. 

_“Don’t worry about me, Princess.” He said as she cradled him in her arms. “I know I won’t be forgotten because I’m counting on you to remember me, ok?” He took a staggering breath. “You can’t let this drag you down, alright?”_

_“Minato,_ **_please_ ** _—”_

_“Nature has this...funny way of finding our weak spots, doesn’t it? Of ripping us hollow if we allow her.”_

_She cried, “I thought you hated philosophy.”_

_“That was until I met you.”_

Minato had warned her, warned her of the tragic ending they would face. She never expected it to be so soon, so soon that it would come from right under their noses. 

Would it have helped? If she had taken his warning? No, she doesn't think it would’ve, truthfully. 

_“Listen, Princess,” there’s a sickly and deathly cough that takes over him. “Just for the record, I wouldn’t have changed a thing.”_

Would she have? If she knew that they were living on borrowed time, what would they have done differently? But, she muses, she supposes that’s the issue. 

They expected that tomorrow would be there for them, however, tomorrow is always uncertain. Would there be plays written for them? Based on them? This was, in everything Minato has told her, an unavoidable tragedy. 

They had the stars, the moon, and the entire universe in their hands. This kind of love, she supposed, was only ever given once. 

Minato died, and the world carries on. Evil and corrupt as it is, and beautiful and magnificent simultaneously. It’s not like in the movies where the entire planet stops and grieves, no one will ever know of him and how he died.

Time moves, whether you want her to or not. Minato came, took her heart, and left all the same. Nothing would ever be the same after him, for all that she has left of him is his name and his jacket. 

And, tears race down, that will be all she needs for now. 

After all: Mors tua, vita mea. 

**Author's Note:**

> this was way longer than expected 🧍♀️
> 
> anyway, pretend this makes sense and that im a literary genius and know what im doing bc I dont ❤️
> 
> [ also uh I made them a playlist 😳👉👈 ](%E2%80%9C)


End file.
